From the Mouth of the Skull
by Lammergeier
Summary: I am Ammar'zeth. I have a story to tell, if you are willing to listen. It is a story of loss, of self-realization, of some rather strange circumstances, and perhaps may change how you think about your greatest enemy. First person/autobiographical R&R?
1. Chapter 1

From the Mouth of the Skull

Chapter 1: The Start of It All

Past and Future Disclaimer: I do not own anything that Blizzard does.

A/N: This is a story I've wanted to do for a very long time, stemming from a picture I drew of a ghoul and a geist "reading" a book. I am very certain that I am taking quite a few liberties with the lore on this, but fan fictions are by nature non-canon. It starts off serious, but I can't keep anything serious 100% of the time. A serious subject with some good-natured fun and silliness.

* * *

As all stories must, I must start my own from the beginning. Only by starting from the very beginning of this whole affair might my motives me fully comprehended. I ask not that you, the reader, sympathize with me; I only ask that you understand. I no longer seek acceptance, I only seek existence. My story is a long one, at it is at times difficult to explain my feelings. Over the decades, my emotions have slipped away from me, but that is only natural. If it were not for my two faithful companions, I may have gone insane. Not the screaming, foaming insane, either. The bad kind of insane, where there is no emotion, no pity. Then I may have finally succumbed to my role and returned to my brethren.

I will not explain where I stand right off the bat; if I did, you might lose interest and abandon the volume before you. I understand fully the hatred that exists between my kind and all the other races of Azeroth, and have experienced it many times. I have even perpetuated it. Do not judge me, as there are no longer any who have the capacity to do so. My deeds and trespasses are too great for any one being, or committee, to comprehend to their fullest extent. I cannot even fathom my reasoning for some things, and have long since stopped trying. It only gives me a headache.

I was born on Draenor, as it came to be called, many years before it was torn apart, many years before Ner'zhul was deceived. I was an orc, once upon a time. I lived peacefully with my clan, I had a wife and a marvelous daughter. I have since forgotten their names and faces, but that fact has long since stopped bringing me grief. I am no longer who I was back on Draenor, and I will never again regain that special kind of magic. I no longer dwell upon it.

I was a shaman at one point, but the special magics contained in water and ice captivated me. Water was so dynamic, so alive. I could feel its movement in my hands, I could feel the urgency it had, to nourish. It could take any form, any shape. I studied it to its furthest extents, and found new form of destruction in ice. At first, I was frightened by it. I was shocked at how much destruction ice could cause. I lived in a very temperate area of Draenor, and our weather did not fluctuate much, so I was unfamiliar at the time with ice and snow. The destructive power of water surpassed that of even fire!

I studied by myself, and slowly passed that line that separates a shaman from a mage. I sought out other spell casters, to learn more, to refine what I could do. I was excited to learn that there were others out there who had discovered the same thing. I had not heard of them previously, as I lived in a small isolated village, and my chance discovery had lead me to strike out on my own, forsaking my family in my thirst for knowledge.

Perhaps that is my greatest fault. Nearly everything I have done has been to learn. I gave up my idyllic life in that sheltered valley for knowledge. I gave up my sense of self for knowledge. I fought against my brethren, against my Lord, for knowledge. I tore through small armies and aided those in need for knowledge. Information is indeed a corrupting energy; knowing too much can be just as deadly as knowing too little.

I eventually found my way to the central hub of the Orcs, and was introduced to our leader, Ner'zhul. I admit, my memories of those years is not very good. I remember learning with other spell casters in his confidence, touching on pieces of my shamanic tendencies that I had almost forgotten about, but always circling back to ice. I feel that Ner'zhul tried to return me to the path of a shaman, but in my short-sightedness and eagerness, I most likely ignored him. Perhaps that just means that I would have made a terrible, terrible shaman.

It was not long after that things began to change. The arrival of the Draenei many years prior was not met with much resistance; no one minded as they were peaceful and kept mostly to themselves. We did not know what was chasing them, what they were seeking refuge from. Although, if we did know, the outcome would probably have been the same. The orcs were peaceful then, and would not have driven them from the planet.

Yes, the orcs were once a somewhat peaceful, shamanic species. It never ceases to amaze me how few people are aware of this. We enjoyed a good fight as much as the next, but we never had any outright war without good reason. Groups of warriors roamed the country sides, searching for game to test their mettle and hone their skills. However, through the machinations of Kil'jaeden and his soon-to-be protégé Gul'dan, the orcs were twisted and ripped away from their humble roots and augmented by fel energies, becoming howling barbarians driven by bloodlust. It is an unfortunate end to such a grand race, but once again, it was inevitable.

Ner'zhul was deceived by demons pretending to be the spirits he sought council with on occasion, and was driven to mass genocide. He was convinced that the Draenei would destroy us, or something along those lines. I forget exactly. Those days were frenetic, and my memories are sketchy at best. I forget exactly how many Draenei I have slain, how many women begged me to spare their children, how many men tried in vain to defend their wives. I would say that it makes me sick to think about it, but again, those are memories that no longer evoke emotion in me. Those thoughts haunt me in the dead of night, but like having a nightmare every day for a month, they cease to have the same poignancy that they once had.

The demons attempted to coerce Ner'zhul to give control of them, but our leader denied them. I will always hold some respect in my heart for our poor leader. He tried to hold out against the demons as best he could, even after having practically given them the orcs. Unfortunately, his last stand was in vain. Kil'jaeden would not be denied. He reached down into the ranks of Ner'zhul's confidants, and found his apprentice, Gul'dan.

Gul'dan was similar to myself in many ways back then. We both were enticed by the power we had been introduced to, and we both hungered for more. However, that is where the similarities end. I would never have done what he did. He abandoned Ner'zhul's teachings outright and focused solely on the demonic powers Kil'jaeden had showed him. He quickly mastered them, and his sudden rise to power was frightening, but awe inspiring.

One memory I have quite vividly of those days is Gul'dan himself coming to me, and asking if I would like to learn what he had. He offered me a chance to help him build his Shadow Council. He gave me time to think about it. I finally decided against it, my instincts telling me that he was delving too deep, he had tapped into something he could not control. I denied my place among his followers and stuck close to Ner'zhul, watching in horror as Gul'dan's cohorts swept across the clans, coercing those in his wake, and when he could not coerce, he subjugated.

Somewhere along the line, Ner'zhul was subjugated himself. He was our leader in name only; Gul'dan was now the true leader, pulling the strings behind the curtains, as the saying would go. He could only watch in horror and sadness as his people were turned into instruments of war, and used to invade another planet. I, personally, was not on Azeroth during this. I somehow managed to stay on Draenor during the wars, and was unaware of the battles and twistings and turnings of the "horde," as the orcs came to be called.

I was even unaware of Gul'dan's death, until Teron Gorefiend came to speak with Ner'zhul. He spoke to him of artifacts that could open up portals to other worlds to conquer…and escape to. By now, I was in over my head, and unable to get out of what I had somehow fallen into. He gathered artifacts, including the Skull of Gul'dan. I watched in horror as this bleached skull slowly tormented our leader. My memories leading up to the opening of the other portals is scant. I do not remember how he obtained the relics, only that he did and opened up the portals, and urged us through it. Only one protested, Obris, and was struck down by Ner'zhul's power and left for dead. I remember quite vividly looking over my shoulder right before entering and seeing him lying face down in a pool of his own blood.

Then we were in the Twisting Nether. It is an experience that is hard to describe. There was no ground on which to walk, but we stood. There was nothing to see, but each other. We stood for a moment, hanging in limbo, uncertain of what to do and where to go, until we were captured.

In hindsight, it was so obvious that we would be captured. Ner'zhul was not particularly subtle on his gathering of the artifacts, or on his motives. He became driven by power, by some inner need that I cannot know. We were surrounded on all sides by demons, and Kil'jaeden's impressive form appeared before us. He laughed at us. Laughed! The lord of the Burning Legion laughed at us, as though he expected us. He took up Ner'zhul and tore him apart slowly in front of us all. The begging of our leader cut into our very souls, but there was nowhere for us to run. He was twisted and bound to a helmet of all things, and encased in a tomb of ice.

He then focused his attention on us, and once again, my memory fades. You would think that I would remember the day that I was turned quite clearly, but alas, I do not. All I remember is a searing, overwhelming pain, then darkness. I do not know how long I was out, or what happened during that time. I have vague recollection of sudden awareness, of feeling necromantic power surging in my very bones, but there are no images that are linked to those sensations. All I remember is finding myself again on the frozen glacier of Icecrown in Northrend, wondering where I was, what I was.

I did not have much time to discover. Ner'zhul's mind had been amplified a hundred-fold, no, a thousand-fold by his wraith-like new form, and his thoughts were oppressive in my mind. We quickly conquered the Nerubians, using them to build a fortress to house our new Lich King. We slowly expanded through Northrend, and developed a way to raise undead minions without the need for direct necromantic magic, the Plague of Undeath. Over the course of the years, we developed a hierarchy that was never challenged, never altered. I was comfortable in my role, commanding my little sect of nerubians and the odd reanimated Vrykul that had tried to stand up to us. I quickly mastered my new powers of necromancy and honed my control over the power of ice that had once so enthralled me.

That is probably what I miss the most. I have tried many times to regain that sense of wonder, that feeling of life between my fingers. Now, it is commonplace, ordinary, and no longer alive. I do not touch liquid water anymore; it feels just as inert as a stone in my hands. I no longer have a connection to life, and I can no longer hope to touch the shamanic powers I once could. The corruption of the Burning Legion on us had been absolute; we were forsaken by all the elements of life, and embraced by the entropic and corrupting elements of death and undeath. The dynamic, destructive element of water had now been replaced by the cold, unrelenting chill of the grave and the howling winds of Northrend.

We broke free of Kil'jaeden's grasp soon after that. The failed siege on Hyjal shattered the Burning Legion, and Ner'zhul jumped on the opportunity to sever ties with our demonic masters. The severance was a high point in my undead life. I could feel the will of Kil'jaeden flowing through the will of Ner'zhul prior to that. When the Lich King suddenly freed himself, it was as though a hole in the world sealed shut, and we once again became autonomous and self-sufficient. We silently exulted in our newfound freedom, and strove to make this world ours, for ourselves. Ner'zhul sent out his will to the other continents of Azeroth, seeking out necromancers and those striving for power.

He eventually found Kel'thuzad. I would find myself cursing that name under my breath in coming years, as he would seemingly come out of nowhere and quickly rise to power, knocking all of the rest of us down one peg.

I suppose this is a good opportunity to come clean about my identity. I am a lich. Yes, the enormous, skeletal figures in overdone robes with horns and tusks and chains and ice. I used to be rather high on the scale within the Scourge, but I have long since severed ties. The petty machinations of my kin, the constant whispering behind my back, the disdain I got from my inferiors and superiors alike for my particular eccentricities that undermined my achievements finally drove me to throw up my hands in disgust and excise myself from the wound that was the Scourge. I say "was," as I have not felt the urgings of the Lich King as much in recent years. I have heard news that he was defeated in Northrend, but I do not feel that is true. The Lich King is no longer a creature of the mortal coil, and must always exist. Perhaps he still does, but has been somehow weakened or contained? One day I will have to investigate myself.

Liches are an interesting sect of the Scourge. Unlike most of the other creatures, we operate almost completely autonomously. We are free to do as we see fit, so long as the end result fits what our King wishes, and we always reach those goals. Thus, we developed a rather intricate society among ourselves. We have a penchant for pageantry. We work long hours prettying ourselves up, and often hole ourselves up for days, trying to think of new and imposing-sounding names for ourselves. I played along for a while, and got pretty high on our little personal hierarchy, until that damnable Kel'thuzad came in.

How I hated that man! I hated him with a passion, even though I hold a silent respect for him. He was a very charismatic individual, even as a lich, and only he could have helped the Scourge gain such a strong foothold in Lordaeron. Still, how quickly he gained confidence with out master made me angry. I had been there with Ner'zhul since before Kil'jaeden had touched him, and now this human was suddenly his favorite? I was not alone in this thoughts, either. Several of my compatriots privately stewed over this new development, but there was nothing we could do. We eventually resigned ourselves to his leadership, and developed at least a cursory respect in his genius.

I soon was sent overseas to Lordaeron myself. It was there that I found my first (un?)lifelong companion. I was put in charge of a rather large regiment of ghouls and abominations, in charge of razing the countryside. I found that I did not much care for the abominations, and would much rather have my nerubians back. The ghouls, however, fascinated me. I found them oddly endearing, their arms flopping to and fro and their little growls and gurgles. One in particular I found rather amusing. A funny little thing with an arrow stuck through his head that went by the name of Toof. I actually chuckled when I first heard the name. He was a toothy little thing, so the name was quite fitting to me.

What was doubly surprising was how well this little ghoul operated. He quite quickly showed that he was of a higher caliber than his kin, often performing complex tasks without a second thought, and adeptly flanking foes and pushing his fellows into more tactical assaults. I praised Toof, probably outrageously, but I had found something that had truly sparked my interest in the first time in a long time. We quickly traveled through the country, burning and destroying, and building our little army all at the same time. Whenever a settlement was destroyed, I raised the occupants as soldiers. Whenever a regiment tried to stand in our way, we destroyed them and I did the same. Our little band quickly grew, and I started getting a little bit creative with my raising techniques.

I found that I could raise up skeletons, and have their arms sharpened into swords, eliminating the need to give them weapons of their own. Toof even got several together and made a wonderful little construct that tore apart four different groups of soldiers before finally being overcome. It was not long, though, before I started feeling bored again. There was not much to do in Lordaeron other than destroy, but I felt no great urge to return to Northrend. By now, Kel'thuzad had been killed and elevated to the form of a lich by bathing his remains in the Sunwell. Arthas soon to be on his way to Northrend to meet with Ner'zhul, and I felt an odd sort of detachment from him.

It was unsettling on some level, since I had followed him faithfully for the better part of my life. Now, there was a distance between us that didn't exist before. He was no longer the Ner'zhul I had loved, either. Proof of that came in visions he shared with a few of us on occasion, those who he trusted the most, who had been with him since the beginning. Disturbing images of dark laugher, roiling waters, living mountains, and odd-colored deer.

One vision in particular inspired me. There were undead roaming around, but free of the iron will of the Lich King. Free from domination. I remember when that image came to me. I stood still for a very long time, unconsciously holding onto the chain that we had all wrapped around ourselves as a symbolic expression of our undying will to the Lich King. I looked down to see my hand on it, and I was perplexed. Why would I be doing such a thing? Was I scared by the idea? Was I trying to figure out how that would happen? Did I want to be free?

Those questions disturbed me. I thought that all of us would be having those thoughts, I thought that we would all have the same level of self-awareness that I had. I was proven very, very wrong when I returned to Northrend. I tried to speak to those I had once considered friends, those few liches who had also seen the visions, those few who I had studied and learned with for so long. The looked at me as though I were a foreign creature, something they had never seen before. Similar to the look we all had given the first Draenei we saw. I laughed and tried to play it off, instantly and painfully aware that I alone had somehow retained my morality, my mortality. That was the beginning of the end for me. My position in the hierarchy quickly fell, I was disgraced. I stayed away from the Citadel and avoided other liches, but I was plagued by their scorn.

It was in this time of dismay that I met my other companion. He was a surly sort, and quite obstinate. Surprisingly, I found him smoking behind a plague wagon.

"Why are you doing that?" I asked of him. The geist looked up at me, removing the hand-rolled cigarette from a small gap in his hood. His eye did not show any remorse; he looked at me with a challenging stare.

"Why does it matter, master?" He said the last word with a deep amount of scorn. I thought about that.

"It doesn't," I replied. "I am just curious."

He looked at me for a while, taking a draw on his cigarette. I found it amusing on some level, since as undead, we do not have the need to breathe, and the cigarette would have no effect anyway. Perhaps it was just a carry-over habit from when he was alive?

And where in the world did he find tobacco in the middle of Icecrown?

"You aren't going to punish me?" the geist asked after a while. His harsh and gargling voice was suspicious. I crossed my arms.

"I see no reason to," I replied. Of course, that was a blatant lie. He was supposed to be performing whatever task was set to him like a mindless drone. However, I once again felt that prickling of interest that I had felt when I came across Toof, which stayed my hand from pushing him to work. He shrugged and returned his attention to his cigarette.

I left after that, and didn't see the geist for nearly a week. It was a Thursday, I believe, when I was walking along the wall of the Citadel, Toof at my heels. I passed by the plague wagons being lined up to move out to Zul'Drak, purely by chance. I noticed a rather surly figure tied to the end of one of the wagons. Sure enough there was the geist again, looking for all the world like he would rather be dead. I paused and looked at him. He looked up at me, then looked away.

I don't know why I did it. It wasn't out of pity, nor was it out of compassion. Maybe it was some strange sense of righteousness, but I don't even know for sure. All I know is, on that day, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of wanting to leave. Something nagged in my skull, urging me to get out. Perhaps it was an overactive sense of self-preservation, but I ordered Toof to untie the geist. He looked up at me, confused.

"I'm leaving," I said. It sounded strange when I first said it, and I almost wavered, Ner'zhul's voice echoing inside my head, urging me to stay. They were hollow words inside my head, and I felt no draw to them anymore. "You can come with if you like. I won't demand any strenuous responsibilities, only that you listen to me if I ask something of you."

The geist's confusion turned to suspicion. I crossed my arms, tapping my finger against my humerus irately. He finally figured that whatever I would ask of him would not be worse than whatever fate was in store for him in Zul'Drak, and agreed. I nodded and motioned for him to follow.

"Come along then, Geist."

"Johann," came the response. I paused and looked back.

"Pardon?"

"My name is Johann," he insisted. If I could have, I would have grinned.

"Alright then, come along, Johann."


	2. Chapter 2

From the Mouth of the Skull

Chapter 2: Landfall

A/N: The tone of this, and direction of this is probably going to meander quite a bit, but it is supposed to be an autobiographical piece, written by Ammar'zeth.

* * *

I suppose I should take a moment to backtrack here. Do not take my words for an absolute timeline. The Plague of Undeath, now that I think about it, was developed around the time that Kel'thuzad was contacted by Ner'zhul. My memories of those times are very sketchy, as life within the Scourge is monotonous at best.

Johann is also not something you should think is the norm. He is much like myself, retaining vestiges of his humanity even after death. Even now he is sitting in the corner, smoking and reading a book. I have never met a member of the Scourge quite like him before. He is more like the Forsaken than he is Scourge, and I cherish his company. Toof is a silly little thing, but one can hardly have a serious conversation with a ghoul.

At any rate, I left Icecrown that day. I did not know where I was going, or even how I would get there, but I was determined to distance myself from the Scourge as much as possible. Ner'zhul still whispered in my head, urging me to return, but I paid him no heed. Was it really so easy to break free of the Lich King's will? In hindsight, I figure that I was lucky. Those were the days that Ner'zhul's will was weakening. It was around that time that the banshee Sylvanas Windrunner freed herself from the Lich King's grasp, and freed many other to form what would become today's Forsaken.

We moved quickly but easily. With just the three of us, we could avoid most attention of the native vrykul and tuskarr as we moved south through Borean Tundra. I soon found out how sharp Johann's wit was, and often found myself in heated arguments with the little bastard. Somehow we developed a friendship between the yelling, and I don't exactly remember when I started to enjoy our little exchanges.

We commandeered a small boat from a tuskarr settlement late at night, and struck out across the water. I suppose I could have frozen a small disk to float on the ocean and propel it across the water, but I was feeling exceptionally lazy at the time if I remember correctly. I remember getting into an argument with Johann about this particular arrangement, and he still harbors a resentment of it to this day.

Pardon me a moment, I feel the need to instigate an argument with him about it.

Now then, where was I? Oh, yes. We commandeered a vessel, much to Johann's chagrin, and set south. We were all mostly unfamiliar with Azeroth, and didn't much know where we were headed. I had memorized a few maps of the world while I was still a part of the Scourge, but none of the names of places meant anything in particular to me.

We were on the ocean for what felt like months. I kept an icy wind blowing at our backs the whole time and we cut through the water like an axe through a melon, but the size ratio of the ocean to our vessel was so vast that it seemed as though we were moving at a crawl. It was a tense time, and the relationship between myself and Johann became strained. If we had a large ship, we might have gone to different ends and taken time to cool off, but on our little dinghy, we had no such luxury. Toof often tried to mediate in his inept and goofy way, but it was to no avail. Johann spent most of the time squatting on the bow of our little boat, staring resolutely out to sea, refusing to look at me.

It was somewhere along this time that I stopped caring what I looked like. The hallmark of a powerful lich is flowing robes with lots of filigree, and oh man did I have that. Jewels dripped from me like water from leaves in Strangethorn, my robes were embroidered with solid gold thread in tasteful but beautiful designs. I was Ammar'zeth the Coldweaver. Ammar'zeth the Iceborn. Ammar'zeth the Vain.

As we traversed the ocean, heading toward who-knows-where, I began running my fingers over the jewels I so coveted, the jewels that identified me as a force to be reckoned with. We were perhaps two days from landfall when, in a fit of uncharacteristic rage, I began ripping the gems from my robes and throwing them overboard willy-nilly. Being not very strong in physical form, the stones did not fly any respectable distance, but my point was clear. I turned my attention to the gold stitching that decorated my attire and took one sharp finger and systematically removed it all, stitch by stitch. I tore off the obnoxious collar that liches so favor and threw it overboard as well, watching in satisfaction as we sailed away from it. It slowly absorbed water and sunk out of sight, into the black depths of the ocean.

I finally stood, a shadow of my former self. My robes were tattered and torn. Without that collar, my figure was definitely not as striking. I was just a skeleton, thin and frail, standing in a boat. I finally turned my attention to the chains that surrounded me and paused. I couldn't do it. I couldn't remove them. That tie, that bond…it would not die so easily. I may have run away, but that did not mean that I was free. I could still hear him whispering to me, speaking to me in the recesses of my mind. I may not be loyal to him anymore, but I was still very much connected to him.

Johann looked over his shoulder at me and watched while I threw my temper tantrum. He didn't say anything, but for some reason, I felt a sort of respect from him after I was finished. Of course, I would never be able to ask him about it. He would deny it with his dying breath. Pardon me, that's sort of an ironic turn of phrase to use in regards to an undead, but I cannot think of a better saying at this moment. Still, I felt oddly happy that he did not chose to say anything about the whole affair. I would rather not try to explain myself.

Slowly, over the horizon, land began to rise. We all became very excited at first, but then we remembered that we were still many miles out to sea, and it would be a long time until we would step foot on solid ground again.

It was about then that I started pondering my motives. I sat on the back end of the boat, continuing to provide that chill breeze that drove us forward, no longer having to think about it. Why did I leave? Why do I feel this overwhelming need to get away? Why do I feel at all? Later in my life, I would find books written by a member of the Cult of the Damned, detailing his journey through several epicenters of Scourge activity before finally becoming a member of the Undead himself. His thoughts on the seeming lack of efficiency was amusing to me, as I had never seen any of those places myself, but his sudden change of tone in his last volume unnerved me to some degree. Was I supposed to take orders so precisely and unquestioningly?

Of course I was, I thought. I was supposed to, but through some cruel twist of fate, I became an aberration. I retained my emotions, much the same as how Johann retained his. We were unwelcome in the mechanical world of the Scourge. We did not follow orders well, and when we did, we did not follow them to the tee. We found new and interesting ways to do things, instead of sticking with tried and true methods. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, but we were acting outside of our station whenever we did so. It was not our place to use our ingenuity. That was the role of the Cult of the Damned, the mortals.

But why did I leave? I did not know the answer at that time. Many years later, I looked back on these years, and finally identified that niggling feeling that propelled me forward. It was the same urge, the same drive that had pushed me to leave my family. The same desire to learn, to discover. I was sick of my life in the Scourge. I needed to move, to learn, to know.

Now that I think about it, I have had massive luck with that little thirst for knowledge. It was that thirst that drove me to seek out other spell casters and brought me to Ner'zhul. Because of that, I still exist today. Had I not pushed myself out into the world to learn more, I might have been destroyed. I have been back to Outland, and tried to find my ancestral home, but it was unfortunately destroyed by the energies Ner'zhul unleashed when he made the portals for our escape. My home was over the Nagrand mountains, and I have stood on the very edge of those mountains, staring out at the Twisting Nether.

It was that thirst for knowledge that, at the time unbeknownst to me, drove me out of Icecrown, out of the Scourge long before the assault on Northrend by the (somewhat) combined forces of Horde and Alliance. It saved me again from an almost assured demise. There have been several other times where I have been urged forward by curiosity, only to miss being utterly destroyed by pure chance. I came close once, but thanks to the intervention by Johann, I survived.

At any rate, we slowly made it closer to land, and our spirits soared with each passing mile. We began to get excited, and I strained the poor canvas in our sail almost to the breaking point in our haste to get there. We made landfall shortly after sunset. I do not know the exact day of our arrival, but it matters not. We were finally back on dry land. There were trees and rocks and animals to look at, and we no longer had to try to amuse ourselves among the monotonous waves and clear skies of the ocean.

We rested for a few hours, not out of fatigue but more out of relief. One of the benefits to being undead is that one does not tire. I do not have to sleep or eat, I do not have to rehydrate. I don't even have to worry about relieving myself, it is the ultimate existence. Although, it does get a bit boring, not feeling anything. There have been several times in my unlife that I have wished that I could touch someone, and feel them, but I cannot. My touch is too cold for living flesh, and burns. I cannot feel warmth or softness, as I have no flesh with which to feel. It is one of the few things that saddens me to this day.

At any rate, we sat in that dark forest for a few hours, laughing for the first time in what felt like centuries. After a while, we finally got moving again, more to find out where we were than out of any desire to travel. We moved silently and swiftly as we had in Northrend, ever vigilant for signs of life. The undergrowth was thick where we had landed, and the plant matter was unfamiliar to me. We eventually came out of the woods onto a vast delta, the ground soft and peaty, the smell of the earth fragrant and rich. All three of us were overcome with waves of nausea. There is something about the smell of rich life that sickens us undead the same way that the smell of rot sickens you living creatures. Just a fun little factoid.

We traversed the delta, picking our way around crocolisks and murloc villages, burning through the night to get away from the overwhelming smell of growth. There were a few run-ins with a murloc scout or two, but Toof and Johann made quick work of them with powerful claws, and the mutilated remains looked more like a crocolisk attack than anything else. Of course, when we had to fend off a crocolisk, it was rather obvious that something other than a reptile had torn its way through the fens.

We continued to move in a southeasterly direction, unaware that we had skipped most of the upper half of the Eastern Kingdoms and were currently in Wetlands. I had no bearings of anything outside of the upper half of Lordaeron, and we were more or less flying blind. The sun rose over the mountains surrounding us, illuminating the vibrant green of our surroundings, bringing to life the birds from the reeds and sparse trees of the delta. We were all more or less of one mind; we needed to get away from this infernal life!

Poor Toof actually vomited up his last remaining organ that day, finally overcome by the overwhelming life around us. I soon sensed the chill of Dun Morogh, blown down through small valleys in the mountain range that separated the Wetlands from Loch Modan. The feeling was slightly stale, but it was there. I, personally, did not feel the heat of the sun bearing down upon me, but my companions did not carry around their own climate. Their particular fragrance escalated, and Johann complained frequently that he was going to decompose before we got out of this wretched hive of life.

It was hyperbole, of course, as he is still here to this day, but he complains in such an extravagant fashion all the time. We somehow managed to evade the eyes of the dwarves as we slowly climbed up into Loch Modan, and journeyed around the mountain ridges to relative cold of Dun Morogh.

Now, I say relative cold because even though it is rather cold, and there is snow and whatnot, it does not come close to the biting, bone-chilling cold of Icecrown. Then again, Icecrown has a few thousand miles of northward positioning over Dun Morogh, and I find it interesting that it seems to be frozen year-round. Perhaps its high altitude combined with its sheltering mountains keeps the chill in. Either way, I am not a geographer, nor do I bother to study the weather patters on the planet. The weather is how the spirits and elements will it. My knowing it will not change how it functions, and since I am unaffected either way by the weather, there is no real point in knowing how it works.

We dallied in Dun Morogh for quite some time. A few months, I believe, before we were discovered. We had taken refuge in some cave far up in the mountains, ignoring all those around us and more or less just living our unlives. I had started experimenting in alchemy, teaching myself about the effects of combining different herbs and flowers in different quantities, experimenting on the local wildlife since I could not imbibe the concoctions myself. I suppose that is what ultimately drew attention to us, as one of my more ludicrous experiments escaped, and quite naturally drew attention. I mean, who wouldn't notice a bright purple snow leopard?

At any rate, during our stay there, Toof had the unbelievable foresight to sneak into a nearby village and find a map of the area. Where he found it, I do not know, but it was a stroke of luck. I studied the map intensively, memorizing the rough sketches of the terrain around us. There was really nothing of interest around us, and were deep in Dwarven territory, with humans populating down to the south of us. I remember sighing as I looked at the scrawled symbols on the map identifying the races that lived in the area around us. What terrible luck I had to lead us right into the very heart of those who would so love to see us destroyed.

Then again, who doesn't want to see us destroyed?


	3. Chapter 3

From the Mouth of the Skull

Chapter 3

* * *

I am uncertain how we got so lucky in our escape from Dun Morogh. A scouting party of dwarves found us in the middle of the night, and somehow evaded detection from all three of us before they returned to their village. How can those stocky little dwarves move so stealthily? It defies logic. We wouldn't even have known they were there if Toof hadn't found their footprints.

A raiding group came up to our little cave to kill us soon afterwards. I remember that day clearly, as it was the first time since I was mortal that I regretted killing someone. There was a redheaded dwarf there, who was obviously very young. His beard was not quite as long or thick as his fellows, and he was twitchy, as though he had not seen battle yet. He lead the pack against us, despite hollers from his elders to stay back.

I didn't even think about it. It was just a reflex more than anything. I swept out my hand as he charged across the snow towards me, and a shard of ice materialized and propelled itself toward him. It collided and pierced his forehead, and he seemed to be frozen in place, the icicle slowly pushing its way further into his head. Time itself seemed to be stopped, moving only for the projectile. Slowly, as though time had to work to regain its momentum, he began to fall backwards, pushed by the force of his demise. He flopped backwards into the snow, his eyes still open, time returned to normal. He was dead before he hit the ground. There was an instant where everyone was silent, staring at the dead dwarf. A sudden cry came from the group of attackers, a battlecry in dwarvish, a language that I have never understood and have no urge to learn.

Toof and Johann were eager to jump forward and join the fray, but I barked a retreat order and swept my arm across the battlefield, a wall of ice following the motion. It gave us time to flee into the snow-blanketed forests behind us.

We didn't stop for three days. Johann jumped from the trees, and I pulled Toof along behind me, floating him on a cloud of icy wind to hide our route. Eventually, we climbed up and over the mountains that fringed Dun Morough, and descended into Elwynn.

That was not the smartest move for us in hindsight. We were willingly passing directly into a hornet's nest. Hornets notorious for breeding paladins. Johann has a joke he enjoys telling about paladins. He says that humans make the best paladins because paladins find their power through righteousness, and the Light can't tell the difference between true righteousness and self-righteousness. And humans are the most self-righteous race on the planet. Although, I'm certain that the Night Elves could give them a run for their money. But I suppose that is just my own personal prejudices talking.

We leveled out in the forest at nightfall. We paused momentarily, to gain our bearings. I studied the map, trying to figure out where we were. Johann leaped up a tree to scope out where we were, to no avail. All he could see was trees. I figured that we were a distance east of Stormwind, and we rather prudently traveled in a southeasterly direction, giving the city a wide berth.

I do not know what time I arrived in Elwynn in relation to the timeline of the humans. I have never much cared for the affairs of men, and I do not have much interest in learning their history. All I know is that I did not want to get caught by…well, by anything really. I could easily defend myself, but I did not want to leave a swath of destruction and a trail for others to find me. I wanted a quiet existence, somewhere remote. I think all three of us would not have minded a few centuries of silence, especially after the nonstop madness of the Scourge.

We made our way through Elwynn Forest quickly, and reached the river that separated it from Duskwood by the time the sun came up. One of the bonuses to traveling as an undead is that we are not hampered by physical limits. We can go as fast as we can without feeling any strain on our bodies. We could probably travel from the top of a continent to the bottom at a constant pace that would probably rival a carriage without stopping.

Toof wanted to stay in Duskwood. I can't say that I really blame him. It's has a very particular atmosphere, and was comforting in a way. The perpetual twilight, the mist that clings to the bases of the trees, the skittering at the periphery of our hearing, of arachnid legs moving through the trees. Every now and then a wolf would howl off in the murk, adding to the atmosphere. It always interested me how there was such a stark difference between Elwynn and Duskwood. Barely fifty feet into the treeline, the sun was blocked out by thicker leaves of older trees, leaving a perpetual chill in the air.

We lingered for a few weeks in the deep forests of Duskwood, skirting back west around the far side, away from the small settlement of Darkshire, but we wanted to avoid any civilization.

There really isn't much to say about those few weeks. They were quiet, and enjoyable. Toof enjoyed himself digging in the peaty dirt for worms and other vermin. Johann lounged about on branches like a lazy panther, humming to himself. It was probably the longest stretch of time that I have ever seen him not roll a cigarette, which I later learned that he didn't even use tobacco, just whatever he found around in wrappers that I still to this day have no idea where he gets. I'm sure that they're somewhere inside his body cavity, but I am not going to pursue my curiosity quite that far. Doing something like that is kind of creepy, even for me. Anyway, I later figured that it was a leftover subconscious habit from when he was living to vent stress.

We didn't realize it at the time, but we were being followed. We had been followed almost since we descended into Elwynn. And we might have not realized that we were being followed had our tail not made a mistake.

We were about three days from deciding to leave when we heard a snap in the trees to our right. All three of us froze, listening for another sound. A snapping of a twig is a surprisingly uncommon occurrence in Duskwood, as the spiders and wolves that populate it are very stealthy creatures. Johann slunk off to the side, and Toof and I went off toward the sound to investigate.

When I think about it, I am uncertain if the rogue knew what he was dealing with when he started tailing us. I had long since abandoned my grandiose appearance, and without that major identifier, I am pretty much just a giant skeleton in a dark robe. Liches are also not very commonplace, and I am certain if I revealed myself in front of a large crowd of people, they wouldn't be able to identify me as what I am without those markers of jewels and luxury.

We passed by a tree and paused, waiting for another sound. The next sound was that of a dagger grating against bone as the rogue jumped from the tree he was hiding in and drove his weapon into the back of my ribcage. There was a pause for a second as I looked over my shoulder at the man. We made eye contact, and the triumphant look on his face melted into despair as his attack obviously had absolutely no affect on me whatsoever.

Needless to say, his day went very sour after that. Johann leaped from a tree, colliding with the man and dragging him to the ground. Toof joined in on the bloody melee, flinging viscera and blood every which way. I reached over my shoulder to pull the dagger out of the two ribs it was lodged between, and turned it over in my hands, admiring the craftsmanship of it. I eventually threw it half-heartedly into a nearby tree and turned my back on the carnage and continued through the woods. After a few minutes, the other two caught up to me.

We rather reluctantly turned our backs on the cool, quiet darkness of Duskwood.


End file.
